


Murphy's Law

by Llwyden ferch Gyfrinach (Llwyden)



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-03-28
Updated: 2003-03-28
Packaged: 2017-10-04 09:24:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llwyden/pseuds/Llwyden%20ferch%20Gyfrinach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A day in the life of a different CI5 agent. Everything goes wrong for Murphy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Murphy's Law

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated with kind words and abject apologies to Deb Kingsmith, without whom this wouldn't have been _nearly_ as much fun!

> **Murphy's Law: ** _Anything that   
>  can go wrong, will._ **O'Toole's Commentary on Murphy's Law:** _ Murphy was an   
>  optimist._

Murphy whimpered quietly as he lowered his head to thunk on the steering wheel. _I never should have woken up this morning._ He'd been nicely comfortable in a warm bed under several layers of blankets — the best he'd felt all day so far. The alarm clock, cold air, and colder kitchen lino had ended his contentment rapidly. But time and Cowley wait for no man, so off he'd dragged himself to prepare for work.

Or at least, he'd tried. At breakfast, his last teabag had broken in the pot, and in trying to strain out the leaves, he'd not noticed that his milk was curdled until he'd already mixed it in. These distractions had lasted just long enough for his toast to burn to charcoal under the grill, necessitating a quick run round to open the windows and a call to headquarters to cancel the fire alarm.

He'd made it out of the flat just barely in time, if the traffic were light, to get to HQ for his shift — only to find that his current motor pool checkout, never happy in low temperatures, refused to start at all. After trying it several times, he'd finally had to give up or flood the engine. Now he sighed and rubbed his temples, feeling the beginnings of a monster headache. Increasingly desperate, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and turned the key in the ignition. No joy, again, and he pounded a fist on the dashboard. Calming himself down, he tried again. And again. And nearly cheered when it finally started. Grinning broadly, he glanced perfunctorily into the street and pulled out. At the first set of traffic lights, he glanced at his watch and winced. _Well, maybe I can make up for the lost time somehow._ He sped up.

Twenty minutes later, he had given up all hope of that, and was just hoping that he'd make it before his shift was up. At this rate, he wasn't terribly confident of that. The delay in starting off had been just long enough to ensure that he was driving in the height of the morning rush hour. Or rather, sitting still in it. At least the heater still worked, though he was beginning to think he'd get more heat if he lit matches. And he still had half his trip to go. At least the hold-up would give him an adequate chance to shave.

He took up the Ronson hastily grabbed from his flat, and ran it over his jaw to tame the morning stubble. He had just given his chin a once-over and started for his upper lip when the batteries wound down and died. "No." He stared at the razor in disbelief. He turned it off and back on again, managing a few more seconds before the power gave out again. He pounded it against his palm with no better results. "This is _not_ happening!" His head fell back against the seat, his eyes closing. _I really never should have woken up this morning._ An irate horn-blast from behind him informed him that it was his turn to creep forward another few precious inches toward his destination. Looking back, he did a double-take. Not only an American car, but _purple_? _That'd stand out in a crowd._ He shook his head and put the car back into gear, rubbing his hands in front of the heater one last time. Any day now ...

"Control to 6.2. Control to 6.2."

He smiled and picked up the radio. "6.2 here. Hello, Deborah." At least something good might come of this — he'd been chatting up the pretty radio officer for days, preparatory to asking her out.

"Alpha One's requesting your location, 6.2," came back the unimpressed and businesslike tone. "He'd like to know, are you lost or merely incompetent?"

Murphy flinched, imagining CI5's controller saying just those words. He pasted on an ingratiating smile that he hoped would somehow carry over the distance, and spoke cajolingly. "Sorry, love, just caught in morning traffic. Nothing I can do about it now ..."

"Well, then, you should've allowed yourself more time, now shouldn't you?" Deborah was having none of it. "Top-notch CI5 agent like you, you should plan for these things."

"But I..." He sighed. It likely wasn't worth it. "Yeh, I probably should have. Just tell Mr Cowley I'll hurry as fast as I can, all right?"

"Message received, 6.2. Control out."

He put the handset back on its hook, crept forward once more, turned off the useless heat, and resigned himself to his fate.

At the carpark, Murphy turned off the motor and ran to headquarters as quickly as possible given his half-frozen limbs. He'd be willing to swear that this was the coldest winter he could remember — but then it always felt colder when the cleaners lost your heavy winter coat, and you'd been too busy with work to shop for another.

The security doors closing behind him brought a welcome lessening of the wind, but not a substantial increase in temperature. As he signed his name to the roster, he turned a baleful eye on Benny, who stood guard.

"_Don't_ say it! If I hear one more complaint about the temperature, I'm belting someone. It's me has to stand here in the entry all day, not you. And I can't help it, can I, if the heat's gone off?"

He offered a grudging apology and went on through, abandoning the lift for the stairs and taking them three at a time in the hope of working up some warmth. Instead, five steps from the fourth floor, his foot skidded off the edge, bringing him down hard, large bruises on his elbows and knees the trade-off for saving himself from a vicious tumble. He hung his head, regaining his breath, and was tempted to an hysterical laugh at the absurdity of his day so far. How much worse could things possibly get?

As if in answer to that question, he entered the ops room to find the expected assignment removed from his name on the duty roster, and a note to see Cowley instead. Cringing and muttering a brief prayer to the god he rarely spoke with, he squared his shoulders and strode down the hallway to the controller's office.

Entering the outer room, he almost fancied a look of sympathy on Betty's face as she waved him in. Giving her a smile he was far from feeling, he turned the knob and all but tiptoed into the lion's den.

Cowley looked up from a phone call, gave him a scathing glance, and proceeded to ignore him contemptuously as only Cowley could. He stood there, attempting not to listen in on the call, and getting steadily more nervous the longer he waited. Finally, the head of CI5 hung up the phone, jotted down a few more notes on the paper in front of him, frowned at it thoughtfully for a moment, then sat back and looked up at the unlucky agent. Murphy suppressed the urge to fidget, knowing how he must look — half-shaven, coatless, probably rumpled from the mad dash to arrive, and, he suddenly realised, with a tear along his right trouser leg which could only be from his fall. He moved a hand cautiously in front of the seam, hoping to block both the cold draught and Cowley's searing, all-seeing gaze.

Cowley's frown deepened. "Good morning, 6.2. Nice of you to join us."

Murphy stood as straight as possible, trying to look both responsible and contrite. "Sorry about the delay, sir."

Cowley stood up and walked over in front of him. Murphy could all but see the anger radiating off him, and felt dwarfed by his presence, despite being several inches the taller. The tirade started mildly, but rapidly gained in both speed and volume as the controller's infamous temper began to make itself known. He stood his ground just barely, hearing the litany of his shortcomings: didn't it occur to him that there _might_ be a reason he was told to be there at a certain time, and did he imagine the terrorists would rearrange their schedules to suit him, or did he feel that he was above it all? And surely, of all the things asked of a CI5 agent, punctuality was not the most demanding, and if he couldn't manage that, then how could he expect to handle the more difficult parts?

Murphy shrivelled inwardly, bolstering his fading courage with the thought that no matter how bad the rest of his day, it could not possibly get any worse than this. A dressing-down from Cowley would be the low point of anyone's day. Surely it would be enough to use up his remaining bad karma, or whatever it was that had prompted today's events so far.

"Is that understood, 6.2?"

Murphy drew a hopeful breath that the lecture was over. "Yes, sir."

"Good. I'd hate to think I wasn't making myself clear." Cowley returned to his chair and picked up a file folder. "Now, here's your new assignment. I want you there at 10.00." He whipped off his glasses and paused to glare at him. "And if you could before that time somehow manage to make yourself presentable, I, your charge, and the British government would all be very grateful. Dismissed."

Murphy grabbed the file and left somewhat more quickly than was dignified, anxious to be out of there before anything else could go wrong. Glancing through the folder on his way to the locker room, he sighed. Not only had he missed out on finishing out the op he'd been working on (and it'd been a good one, too!), but a baby-sitting job? At least on a stakeout, he could read or something. Boredom and tension seldom reached the same exalted heights on any other job as they did on bodyguarding detail.

Once in the shower, he discovered that apparently whatever had affected the heat had also done in the water heaters. _It's all a plot. A conspiracy to freeze us all to death!_ Teeth chattering, he dried off and ran the hair-dryer over his body as well as his head, trying for some warmth, then changed into the spare clothes he kept in his locker. Which apparently, he noted ruefully, had been in there some time. He looked at himself in the mirror, and was relieved to find they didn't look as tight as they felt. At least Cowley would have no cause for further complaint. After dressing came the adventure of shaving with his spare straight razor. Three nicks and one abrasion later, he finished a stinging bout with the aftershave and went to the garage to see about a different car.

Ten minutes after arriving to argue with the mechanic, he left in the same one he'd come in, forms (in triplicate) for a new requisition lying in wait for someone in authority. He read the case file as he drove, noting the basics: diplomatic connections, death threats, female ...

Several hours later, as he stoically stood bodyguard in the hotel room, the thought recurred: _I never should have woken up this morning._ He stood in silence, his most polite smile plastered on his face. He'd played nursemaid to a lot of people in his time with CI5, many of whom he'd not cared for, and a good number of whom had been somewhat less than savoury. But he could not yet recall one that had been quite this _annoying_. When he'd first arrived, he'd been a bit relieved — he hadn't particularly looked forward to a bodyguard detail, but the subject _was_ a pretty woman, and he _had_ been ordered to stick fairly close ...

At this point, though, he was beginning to have fond thoughts of Colonel Lin Foh, heretofore his undisputed World's Worst Baby-sitting Experience. Like that oh-so-august gentleman, this baby had no qualms in speaking loudly and frequently on the subject of her guard's inadequacy and incompetence. Like him, she seemed to think that Murphy's job included assistant, manservant, and all-around dogsbody. Unlike the colonel, she had not even given him the courtesy of eating with her, and his one salvaged slice of burnt toast and a glass of water were hardly enough to last out the day. The standard twelve-hour shift seemed to have grown much longer that day, leaving Murphy to speculate if it were actually possible for the rotation of the earth to have slowed down perceptibly.

He ground his teeth, smiled tightly, and put up with it. He had, so far, a perfect record — no assignment of his had yet died under his guard, and he intended to keep it that way. And he did rather suspect it would be highly bad form to strangle the woman himself. Bad form, but at this point infinitely satisfying. And if she kept on as she was going, the Cow might even (covertly) approve it. Maybe it would put him back in the old man's good books. He liked to think he was a fair man, but after listening to her incessant complaining, that fairness was becoming fairly strained. Besides, her Yank accent really got up his nose. And just how much longer could this one day be?

Glancing at the hotel clock, he noted that at this point, at least, he was not imagining things. His "twelve-hour" shift had just got half an hour longer. He looked in on his charge, now haughtily ignoring him in favour of her paperwork, then walked far enough away not to be easily overheard and pulled out his R/T.

"6.2 to Control." He paused, waiting for the acknowledgment. "6.2 to Control."

"Control, 6.2." He didn't know whether to be glad or disappointed that it wasn't Deborah again.

"It's coming up to 22.30. Any news on my relief?"

A brief pause as the man consulted the roster. "One moment, 6.2." Another pause, longer this time. Then: "He's reported in, no problems. Just a bit of delay. Remain on duty until he arrives."

The dispatcher didn't seem too surprised, and Murphy's suspicious instincts were aroused. "Acknowledged, Control. And just who would that be?"

"Your relief for the evening is agent 9.8. Control out."

With a sinking feeling, Murphy groaned inwardly. Pennington. He might've known it'd be Pennington. What the man was doing on the roster was anybody's guess. A great shot, highly observant, he made a great sniper or lookout. But he was notoriously tardy. _And Cowley complains about _me being late? Murphy resigned himself to another quarter hour's wait.

At 23.00, though, it was a bit late even for Pennington, and he was just wondering if there could be something actually wrong when his R/T bleeped.

"6.2."

"Control, 6.2. Agent 9.8 reports that he's been in a car crash. No other backup available until 01.30. Remain at your post 'til that time. Control out."

"Acknowledged, Control." _I never should have woken up this morning._ Still, the day was almost over. And surely soon the woman would go to bed, and maybe then he could even send down for food ...

Unfortunately, she seemed to be a night owl. At midnight, she was still awake, still wading through papers, and still making the occasional nasty comment about his lack of anything useful to do. At quarter past, she decided on a Coke from the machine in the hall. After patiently explaining to her that he couldn't leave her alone to go and get it for her, he ended up following the scowling woman down the hallway.

She finished feeding her change into the slot, and pushed the button. Nothing. She pushed it again. Still nothing. He waited for the explosion which was sure to come.

From their distant room came the sound of an explosion, as the door was blown in. Startled but instantly alert, he drew his gun and peered around the corner at the smoke billowing out of the doorway. Voices from inside grew louder, as they ascertained the room was empty, and spread out to look for their quarry. Glancing around, he grabbed her arm and headed for the fire stairs. They were alarmed, but with any luck, listeners would assume that the smoke had set off the bells.

"Down the other end! They're heading out the back way! After them!"

Then again, when today _had_ luck been with him? They ran down the stairs at a breakneck speed, reached the bottom, and ran through onto the ground level of the carpark, pausing briefly to catch their breath and call for backup. He grabbed her arm again and started heading for his car, only to hear shots ring out as they were spotted. Quickly, he pulled her down behind a car, and peeked out, looking for the sniper. If they could just reach his car ... _and get it to start_, he added mentally.

Seeing the rifleman, he made a quick and simple plan, and relayed it to his incensed charge. "Look, when I say, you run over there to the next row of cars. I'll be right behind you." She made as if to argue with him, and he lost a bit of his temper. "Listen, have you got a better plan?" Forced to acknowledge she didn't, she crept towards the other side of the vehicle they crouched behind.

Nodding at her to go, he popped out of hiding and ran. Unfortunately, under these conditions, even a class A marksman would have difficulty hitting his target, and his bullets sprayed into the walls and ceiling. Glancing back as he fired, he had just time enough to register the spark of a ricochet before a sudden pain caused him to fall down, directly on top of the lady. A bullet hitting the car behind them, right where her head would have been, was small consolation for the bloody mess that he squinted down at, formerly his left foot. _Why did I ever..._ he never finished the thought, as her angry shove reminded him they still needed to get under cover.

Rolling off her and collecting another glare, he followed her behind the next row of parked cars, dragging his foot as fast as he was able. It was bad, he could tell, already growing faint from the blood loss. If they didn't finish this soon ... He pushed her further down, and prayed their backup would arrive in time. If none of the other attackers had made it down here yet, maybe they had already been detained, which would leave them just this one, and a fighting chance.

The man's footsteps rang loudly through the cavernous structure as he headed towards them, searching every possible hiding place. Murphy inched the woman around between the front of a van and the car opposite it, hoping she'd be less visible there. If he could get off one good shot before he passed out ...

He heard the man approaching, and readied his gun. The car next to him was checked. The footsteps continued. His hands tightened as he concentrated against the pain of his wound. He couldn't miss this!

The other man came into view, and Murphy aimed and pulled the trigger before he could notice he'd found who he was looking for. _-Click-_ The hammer closed on an empty chamber. _Oh, shit. Oh, _no_!_ He looked up into the grinning face of his opponent as the man advanced, leering.

All at once, the look of victory changed to surprise as his feet gave out beneath him, the weight of the rifle carrying him forward. In an effort to avoid stumbling, he overbalanced the other way, falling backwards and hitting his head first on the car, then on the hard concrete as he landed on his back.

His heart pounding, Murphy sat there for a moment, stunned. Unable to fathom this sudden upswing in his day, he crept closer and grabbed the rifle, to his relief eliciting no movement rom the man. Grabbing up his handcuffs, he proceeded to turn him over and cuff him, only then noticing what had caused him to slip and fall: a pool of blood from Murphy's foot.

Sitting back against the car as he heard backup arrive, he began laughing hysterically, unable to stop once he'd started, until the dizziness from relief and blood loss caught up with him, and he passed out.

A day and a half later, he was sitting in the pub after a thankfully boring day of paperwork. The doctors had assured him that he should see no permanent damage, and the nature of his injury had ensured that he wouldn't have to face retraining for some time yet. He'd done his job, the annoying Yank was safe, the heating in headquarters had been fixed, and he'd got another car. All in all, things were decidedly looking up. Now if he could only stop the other agents snickering in their sleeves whenever they saw him, his life would be marvellous.

"Hey, Murph!" "How's it going, Murph?" The overexuberant voices of CI5's finest rang out across the room. Painting a suitably pleased look on his face, he glanced up at Bodie and Doyle as they joined him, and nodded his hello.

"You two look indecently happy. The Mills op went well, then?"

"Yeh. Too bad you couldn't be there." Doyle took a drink and shook his head mock-sympathetically. "Got 'em all, _and_ enough evidence it'll stick this time. Good job all around. Cowley was very pleased."

"Must be nice he's pleased with someone," he groused.

"Ah, don't be like that, mate," Bodie clapped him on the back. "You're sure to be back in his good books by now. Handled yourself very well on that last one, I thought." He smiled, positively beaming. "Didn't he, Ray?"

"Oh, yeh, definitely."

"You think so?" He wasn't trusting this act for a second.

"Yeah, course you did! Tell you what ..." Bodie paused for a sip. " 's Pennington who oughta watch out. Old man's not best pleased with him. CI5 driver training going to waste, and all that." He nodded sagely.

"Not to mention the cost of a new car," his partner chimed in.

"Well, it was his own fault," Murphy started to relax, knowing the steely eye of their boss would be turned elsewhere. "He should've been on time to begin with."

"Yeah." Bodie smirked. "Really shot himself in the foot on that one, didn't he?"

Murphy's face turned beet red with embarrassment as the pair tried to stifle their chuckles, rapidly getting up and making their excuses.

"Sorry, Murph. Places to go, people to do, you know the routine."

"I don't think it goes like that, Bodie."

"Well, I can always hope, can't I?"

"Take care, Murph! No hard feelings, eh? **Bloody** good job, after all!"

His scotch glass missed both of them on their way out, shattering on the doorway. The landlord made him pay for it.


End file.
